Showing posts with label superman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label superman. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 05, 2019

When Superman Cashed His Check- Ben Affleck’s “Hollywoodland” (2006)-A Film Review

When Superman Cashed His Check- Ben Affleck’s “Hollywoodland” (2006)-A Film Review 



DVD Review          

By Sarah Lemoyne

Hollywoodland, starring Adrien Brody, Diane Lane, Ben Affleck, Bob Hoskins, 2006    

[Sometimes this film reviewing business which is really all the cutthroat, take no prisoners, you are only as good as your last review, the last word in your last review really, that everybody who has kept their ears and eyes on the industry has exposed although lot of good it did them. Which is surprising since the film industry, Hollywood in the old exclusive days and now Bollywood and beyond as well, had paid generations of flak-catchers, press agents, strong arm men if need be, hit men if that doesn’t work to make itself and its adjunct film critic cohort look like bosom buddies. That of course is hooey.

The cutthroat and other stuff mentioned above about the profession such as it is got a good workout a while back when one Sam Lowell, a name well-known in the industry if not well liked since he has in the course of a forty plus year career pushed some pretty wrong buttons, has panned more movies that maybe God, and I ran what he called a cold civil war between us over our “different” interpretations of films we were jointly reviewing to give the readership our “takes” on the series of films we were given to toil over. No question despite my youth, my having only a couple of years before I started working here just finished graduate school at NYU, that I whipped Sam’s butt and really did leave no prisoners. I will grant he did beat meet on a retro-review of American Graffiti but that one was strictly from his own youth and he could have been in the cast of the film and not embarrassed himself. Moreover I was pretty clueless about Valley boys out in California and their wet dreams about what Sam called “boss” cars back then and about hanging out in some drive-in restaurant which today as a gag only exist in places like San Francisco where there is a chain of Mel’s Diners.       

I might have whipped Sam’s butt as most of the younger writers here (some like Will Bradley who had his own “competition” with Seth Garth over the fake legend built-up by the publishing and film industries of punk private eye, gumshoe really, Sherlock Holmes from over in England, who helped me slay the nasty old tiger Lowell) and a sample polling of the readership attested to but I forgot the first rule of the profession really of the whole publishing industry. That cutthroat part which came home very soon and very clearly. As a result of my good work I was given a cherished by-line by the site manager and for a while I was writing material weekly if not more, especially helping Will Bradley get his own byline (which he did get over that debunking Sherlock Holmes and about ten other overblown legends not all of them that I was personally aware of).   

Then the roof fell in. Many very good films came out in 2018 and I was “overlooked” on all of them. Same thing with the treasure trove of older films which are the staple of this publication as far as paying attention to the history of film and what the old-time films bequeathed to the industry today. Finally, I was “pieced off” with a long series I was, am scheduled to present on B-films from the 1940s and 1950s. But no present or current work to keep my name before the public, and before the other rats in this business looking to cut any, my throat to get ahead. I went to the site manager, Greg Green, the one who hands out the assignment including what should be a very good one on those B-films if it ever gets published. That is when I learned that “cutthroat” had a name.  

That name one Sam Lowell. See Sam for having betrayed his old-time growing up friend and at that time site manager Allan Jackson with the decisive vote for his ouster got to be the chair of the new Editorial Board set up in the wake of the vote to insure “one-man” rule never sees the light of day again in this publication house. Sam had put the hex on me with the site manager strictly due to his defeat in our duel. Nothing else can explain my wash-out. I threatened to quite (taking maybe one thousand pages on that B-film project with me and let them sue me if they liked) and to keep the peace I am now back in the public prints. Here is the real beauty of the story though I grabbed the review below from egg-on-his-face Sam Lowell who practically begged Greg for the assignment. See, cutthroat business, right.   
(Allan, now returned as what they call a contributing editor after a hoary story of exile and banishment working for newly elected Utah United States Senator Mitt Romney’s election campaign in 2018, partnering in a high-end whorehouse with an old flame Madame La Rue out in San Francisco and M-Cing the famous drag queen show at the KitKat Club with his old friend Timmy Riley aka Miss Judy Garland in that same city if any of the rumors are to be believed. This all before current site manager Greg Green hired me when he took Allan’s place.) Sarah Lemoyne]    

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No question Hollywood knows how to make good noir films ever since they put classics like The Maltese Falcon, The Big Sleep, and Out Of The Past among others together back in the 1930s and 1940s. And that genre gets a modern workout here in the film under review, Hollywoodland, centered on the death of actor George Reeves who won a certain amount of fame as Superman in the hit television series in the 1950s (a series that I watched faithfully early in the morning on rerun television when I was a kid although I don’t think I took the news of his death all that personally unlike the boy in the film but that death had occurred later when I had stopped watching the series). The noir part is the intrigue that builds up over the possible ways he might have died although for the record everybody wanted the thing put down as suicide-just another guy who couldn’t hack the fact that his show had been cancelled and that he had been type-cast as a guy in tights and a muscle shirt with funny lettering, maybe gay but nobody publicly said anything about that until Rock Hudson’s AIDS time blew the lid off the whole thing. Yeah a has-been guy who had only the acting range for such kid-appropriate roles.     

Let’s see where the trail leads here. George Reeve, played by Ben Affleck, committed suicide in 1959 by shooting himself in his bedroom while his fiancé (as you know that status did not preclude a little gayness in those uptight times when guys would seek marriage for cover against the “light on your feet” charges) and others were downstairs. That hard fact is part of the historical record, the police record. But there were enough contrary statements and allegations to, well, fill a book which in fact happened and allowed a fictionalized film to try to fill in the blanks-or create a nice noir story about the prizes and pitfalls of Hollywood in the 1950s.    
Naturally, although a noir can survive without one, murder always spices one up. As does having a fictionalized shoulder to the wheel private detective look for leads on a dead-end trail after the “too busy” cops have thrown the case into the cold files. Enter one Louis Simo, P.I., nicely understated played by Adrien Brody, a been around the block once too many times down at the heels divorced father of a young son who was  a Superman series devotee (and a kid who took the death of the super hero pretty hard including almost burning the house down trying to get rid of his Superman costume since suicide was not a manly way to solve any problems among the young). He takes the case when Reeves’ mother is unhappy with the Los Angeles Police Department’s work on what happened to her son.  

Brother Simo might have been a two-bit, second-rate private detective but he was tenacious, was committed to seeing what was to be seen to the end which placed him in the company of guys like Sam Spade and Phillip Marlowe. Ready to take a fist or too, a slug in his body if need be, to see if there was a way to grab some rough justice in the world. See if the rumors of a planned “hit” by some high movie executive doing the deed to poor George for some unknown agent or if that lovely fiancée accidently pulled the trigger. The three theories mix and match in flashbacks throughout the film, although in the end that suicide seems the most likely answer.   
But along the way there was enough confusion about motives, enough questions about who in Reeves’ life might want him out of the way to keep things moving. The prime “evidence” for the hit-man theory was the woman scorned always a good choice when murder, murder most foul is in the air. The woman scorned, an older woman scorned, Toni Mannix, played by Diane Lane, the paramour of Eddie Mannix, played by Bob Hoskins, had plenty of reason to have done the deed, or had it hired out. She had picked Reeves up one night at a party and they quickly became lovers (it was okay old Eddie had a mistress so “no foul” as they say). Including her setting up house with Reeves (she paid, or rather Eddie paid). They went along for a few years, years when Reeves became a big television hero among the younger set (and later me).     

After the Superman show was cancelled though our George was at wits end, needed a project (interesting he accused Toni of not lifting a finger to help his career even though she was well-connected through Eddie). He headed to New York where he met his fatal mistake-his- Lenore who wound up as his fiancée as they headed back to the cesspools of Hollywood. Needless to say, Toni was beside herself when Superman fel down and it is that fact that drives the hitman theory full force. And our man Simo is living proof since as he digs deeper into the cold, cold case he is warned off about seven different ways by various private dicks and security guys who work for guess who-Eddie Mannix who whatever else he might be does not want to see Toni bothered.

In the end we are left with nothing but pure speculation just where we started about what happened the night of Reeves’ death. But you know with the gritty feel of this one, the familiar menacing background music and period piece cars and costumes made me think that Hollywood still knows how to put a noir together when it wants to. Thanks Adrien, Ben, Diane and company. 
  

Monday, February 05, 2018

A Kinder, Gentler Super-hero- DC Comics’ “Superman Returns” (2006)-A Film Review

A Kinder, Gentler Super-hero- DC Comics’ “Superman Returns” (2006)-A Film Review





DVD Review

By Laura Perkins   

Superman Returns, starring Brandon Routh, Kate Bosworth, the now disgraced sexual bandit Kevin Spacey, 2006

Die Superman, die. That may be an unkind start after babbling about a kinder, gentler Superman in the come-on headline for this film Superman Returns but that is that in the hardball world of film review. The world where one day you are king of the hill the next yesterday’s news fit for wrapping in newspaper used to dispose of the fish. Greg Green, the site manager here for the past few months, has been asking for just this kind of lead-in when he tagged me a while back for a review of another Superman so-called saga Batman versus Superman where the righteous Lex Luthor wasted the faster that a speeding bullet guy without rancor or regret. First of all I bitched out that I had to even do a silly film based on a male fantasy comic book series that I did not read as a young girl and yawned my way through with a bunch of screaming kids who only cared about the non-stop action to keep up their interests. Second of all because        
Greg Green persists against all reason, against all the evidence to the contrary including the numbers, in making his stable of writers without exception have to bow down to this super-hero noise over the past few months.   

But none of that, none of those reasons compare to the foolish feelings I have doing this review after I gave Superman a teary farewell and a hero’s funeral in that previous review only to have to recant here and say it was all a joke. I had grown women gnashing their teeth over that death, children committing mortal sins having lost their faith after their lord protector proved to be made of common clay, and grown men committing felony murders in a rage in revenge for the loss of their illusions. Only to find that Superman took a powder for five years doing some sordid spacewalk seeking his origins like any other geek. We won’t mention, mention in mixed company anyway, that nobody seemed very worried about the whereabouts of alter ego Clark Kent who disappeared at the same time as the man in blue and returned at the same time as well.

Did anybody miss this stup. No way. Old flame Lois Lane moved on, moved on fast and furious picking up a Pulitzer for her expose of the Superman legend/hoax, bore a young son of unknown parentage, and found a new paramour in the boss’ son. Even Jimmy Olsen has grown up a bit, moved on from incompetent copy boy to incompetent cub reporter. Superman/Clark get lost, leave Metropolis alone. Of course that is all fantasy since, as usual, the tootling town is menaced once again by the previously imprisoned Lex Luthor now free to muddy the waters-and seek revenge for the bad rap Superman laid on him making him do a nickel in the slammer.

More fantasy smashed. Lois once she sees the he-man, once he does one of those “leaps tall buildings in a single bound” routines has her heartstrings pulled to the breaking point. Forget the nice earthly deal with the boss’ son, forget that little cottage and nice lawn business. Meanwhile this scene is driving Superman crazy since he figured that Lois was his eternally so he makes a pact with the devil. Makes him work old Lex Luthor into a lather to get him to show his super-human skills once again in crushing the weasel.                        

That trick got played out when Lex and his henchmen grabbed Lois and the kid, a nice kid but kind of out of it from the drugs he was sucking in for his asthma. When things get crazy the kid comes through though saving Mom from one of Lex’s bad boy comrades. Showed he was the righteous son of Superman as it turned out just starting to get in harness with his super-human father side DNA skills. The merely human boyfriend, fiancé, whatever is strictly second fiddle now. Especially after Superman saves, ho hum, Metropolis yet again from a single criminal mind like Lex after Mr.Bad had decided to blow the place to kingdom come (which makes me wonder about the moral fitness of the citizens of the town to be saved). Sure there was an anxious moment, no, anxious second, when nasty Lex stabbed Superman with some off-market generic kryptonite but even the five year old kids didn’t stop munching their buttered popcorn over that little blip. Jesus what couldn’t Superman have had the good sense to pass away and leave what Sam Lowell calls a candid world alone. Better yet why doesn’t Greg Green get off the dime and have us review real films-for adults.       


Thursday, January 04, 2018

Elegy Upon Hearing Of The Death Of Superman-“With Batman vs. Superman: Dawn Of Justice” (2016) In Mind

Elegy Upon Hearing Of The Death Of Superman-“With Batman vs. Superman: Dawn Of Justice” (2016) In Mind  





By Seth Garth

[Perhaps only a person, a man in this case, like Seth Garth who can trace his forebears gaggle of poets, bandits, stone-cold junkies, whores, whoremongers, whoremongers’ wives, midwives, witches, odd-ball aficionados, troubadours, minstrel singers, blackguards going back to medieval times in ancient France, going back on his mother’s side it is said and which explains a lot of things to the bandit/troubadour/poet exiled in his own land François Villon. Back to France when it was all cut up into pieces with little castles and moats and the world too. Only a guy like that could write a prosaic elegy without tears for a legendary figure like Superman, a super-hero whose time had passed. Site manager Greg Green]
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Signpost: December 7, 1941 for those who squeaked by the Great Depression hunger and cold that provoked and pervaded the land and who still charged forward slogging through the muddy beaches and forests of World War II, or waited breathlessly at home. Signpost: November 22, 1963 where every schoolboy and schoolgirl knew exactly where he or she was when the news came through the PA systems of a million schools portending I have a dream Martin death and seek a newer world Robert one too to end Camelot children dreams and Summer of Love drugs, sex and rock and roll. Signpost: 9/11 no year needed yet when everybody learned that in this wicked old world that there were people, there were unchecked forces who sought end time, sought the garden without regard. Signpost: March 26, 2016 the day when a candid world first heard that super-hero for the ages, an other-worldly guy, an alien of a different sort, Superman, had finally cashed his check.         

Who knows how it happened, how it could possibly happen when all the world figured he was invincible, was always to be with us. The world became far shorter than by a head when he laid down that beautiful head of his. (Now laid out in white cross National Cemetery to be wreathed at Christmas time, flagged on Memorial Day and Armistice Day after boom-boom salutes). 

Man of steel, man of steel, man of steel, man of maximum steel.

Not born of woman, a stranger in our midst, churning cornfields into flapjacks, odd duckling in a hero-less world in desperate need of heroes. Nameless except silly earthling name horn-rimmed glasses wimpy goof Clark Kent, a dweeb, nerd, and every other foul name tyrant editor Perry White could lay on him when he came up with some of the lamest stories in newspaper history to cover his tracks, running ruses around who he was and who had deposited him pod-like in Middle America corn-fed fields of dreams.       

Mild-mannered, mild mannered, maximum mild-mannered

Caped crusader in a world filling up with vermin, with the dregs, with oceans full of flotsam and jetsam robbers and robber-barons. Filling up too with a crowd of would-bes, would be super-heroes like they could come off the assembly line ready for action. Ready to fight the creeps, the crooks, the fixer men, the gay guys who worshipped him in silent vigil rooms. Junkie-fixer men crying hero, hero worship me unto the end days, unto the return to the garden. Every sullen batman, ironman, wonder woman, black widow, hulk, thor, and a million other hucksters and hustlers, con artists claiming king or queen-ship. Looking for the man chance.      

Able to leap tall buildings, able to leap tall buildings, able to leap maximum tall buildings.

Made young boys weep for their inadequacies, cowering in corners waiting to be saved, to be born again. Made grown women wet with his bulging muscles and his devilish ways. Little did they know that timeless he was winding down, had lost a step or two, told that he was losing some of his brain power by respected John Hopkins doctors and Walter Reed medics like many aliens do when they hit the American shore and try to turn to vanilla.    

Faster than a speeding bullet, faster than a speeding bullet, faster than a speeding maximum bullet. 

I, I who hear the great world moan death attendant, I who speak for the unwashed masses, I who sing the great Whitman America we are your sons song, got caught off guard, didn’t know that he had had more than a few run-ins with the law, was selling high grade ammo to nefarious parties, was getting a few more people angry every time he took to the cape for a caper. Worried and angry since the collateral damage, a new term unfamiliar to him that he told Lois Lane one pillowy night, he didn’t give a damn about as long as he got one bad guy less to the notched world wasn’t over-shadowing the ratio. Was getting so people were calling for his arrest and exile back to Pluto or wherever they thought he was from (so hungry for a savior in a Daily Planet survey inspired by that brute Perry White only one in ten could name his planet of origin-sad)

Kryptonite, kryptonite, maximum kryptonite. 

Had missed in my plainsong that Superman had turned junkie and was selling himself to the highest bidder, toying with a holy goof named Lux Luthor who had more than one screw loose, who had a stable of poor boy super-heroes to unload on an unsuspecting world. Had a guy named batman wound up so tight that he was ready to take the caped crusader on one on one for cheap money and a shot at Lois Lane if Wonder Woman was already spoken for. Beat the bejesus out of Superman on the quiet one night and Clark Kent was AWOL for days around the Daily Planet nobody thinking it odd.

More powerful than a locomotive, more powerful than a locomotive, more powerful than a maximum locomotive.

The way the story went around, went after the coppers fucked around with the truth and the media bought the damn thing hook, line and sinker, was he was an orphan bastard of some Krypton mutant seeking revenge, seeking his death, since his mother shipped him off to joyride Earth. Ceremonial bitch father had a kryptonite-edged blade and rammed the thing straight through the kid, gone in a minute, done, cooked shamrock green from what they told on the 6 o’clock news.      

It’s a bird, it’s a plane, its Superman, it’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s Superman, it’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s maximum Superman.  

Yeah, it was a sad world day the day that guy laid down his head, the day we heard Superman had finally cashed his check.